Scroll of Saqqara(183)
“He should not be doing this!” she said fiercely. “He should be on his couch, dying with dignity! All this is madness, Antef, and we are encouraging him.”
At the sound of her voice Hori stirred and pulled himself up on Antef’s arm. “Do you think Father is with Tbubui?” he slurred.
“No,” Sheritra answered as they shambled out of the room and into the passage. “Tbubui is sleeping on the roof of the concubines’ house. Father will be on his couch.” She was dreading this meeting, to her a proof of Hori’s increasing madness, but such was her loyalty that she was determined to support him to the end. She prayed, as they lurched along, that Khaemwaset would understand and be indulgent.
Several times on the way to Khaemwaset’s suite Hori appeared to lose consciousness, but eventually they came to the imposing electrum-plated door behind which Khaemwaset was sleeping. The guard, after one look at the dishevelled trio, knocked, and after a moment a bleary-eyed Kasa answered. One glance at them was enough to chase the sleep from his eyes.
“Highnesses!” he exclaimed. “Whatever has happened?”
“Let us in, Kasa,” Sheritra demanded, “We must speak with Father.”
The body servant bowed and disappeared with alacrity. After what seemed an age he returned. “The Prince is awake and will see you,” he said, standing back, and the three of them staggered through the ante-room and into Khaemwaset’s sleeping room.
He was sitting up and blinking in the light of the fresh lamp Kasa had brought, his expression irritable. At the sight of them he slid from under the sheets and reached for a discarded kilt, wrapping it around his waist and brusquely indicating the chair by the couch. Antef and Sheritra slid Hori onto it.
“So, Hori, you have returned,” Khaemwaset said coldly. “Embroiled in madness and conspiracy, I have no doubt. What is the matter with you?”
“He is very sick,” Sheritra said swiftly before Hori could reply, “but he has things to tell you Father. Oh please listen.”
“Sick?” Khaemwaset echoed without much interest. “I dare say he is. Sick with his own guilt. I had expected more from you, my son, than weak self-indulgence and the petty urge for revenge.”
Hori had managed to retain his hold on the Scroll. Now he thrust it towards Khaemwaset. “Do you recognize this, Father?” he asked. “Sheritra and I found it not an hour ago in the locked chest in your office where you keep your other scrolls. Antef will swear that I am telling the truth.”
“What were you doing in there?” Khaemwaset said furiously. You have taken leave of your senses, all of you.”
Then he looked down at the Scroll. At first he was obviously not aware of what he was holding, but as he turned it impatiently the bloodstain came into view. He stared at it, his hand began to shake, then with an oath he flung it away. It flew past Hori’s head and landed in the shadows. Quietly Antef stepped back and picked it up. Sheritra, all her attention fixed on her father, saw that he had gone a deathly white.
“I see that you do recognize it,” Hori commented with a wry smile. “Remember how you dug the needle into your finger, Father, and your blood dripped onto the corpse’s hand? Antef, give it back to the Prince. I want him to examine it more carefully. I want him to be sure.”
But Khaemwaset backed away. “It is the Scroll of Thoth, that damnable thing,” he said hoarsely. “I am not denying it. What I refuse to believe is your foolish story. If you have indeed broken into my chest you will all be severely punished.” He was recovering. Sheritra saw the colour creeping back into his cheeks, and with a blaze of controlled anger mixed with cunning. She had never before believed her father capable of sheer animal craftiness, but there was no mistaking its presence on his face. He is not going to listen, she thought with a chill of fear. All his fairness, his reason, has been swallowed up in possessing Tbubui. He is like a cornered animal driven to the extreme of temporary insanity by the need for self-preservation.
He came close to Hori, bending and placing his hands on his own knees, peering into his son’s pain-wracked face without any sign of concern.
“You are a little jackal, Hori,” he said thickly. “Shall I tell you what I believe? I believe that you broke open my chest to put the Scroll in, not take it out. You did not find it there, you stole it from the tomb and mutilated my chest to support your weak story. Now what story is that exactly, Hori? What incredible deceit am I being asked to consider?”
Sheritra pushed forward with the scrolls Hori had brought back from Koptos. “Read these, Father,” she begged. “Hori is too ill to talk. They will explain everything.”